


Eleven Eleven

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Armistice 2015, Gen, Lest We Forget
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5191163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armistice Day 2015, and John makes a lonely vigil to a small cemetery in London. LEST WE FORGET.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleven Eleven

**Author's Note:**

> LEST WE FORGET

**10.50.**

He knew that Mrs Hudson was safe away with her sister – where she was needed most. She would be worried about him, and for that he was grateful, there had been too much sadness and worry in her life, John was not going to add to that burden.

With a determined step he entered the cemetery, walking through the neatly kept grounds, past graves dating from the 1700’s to just two weeks ago, a grave so fresh that there hadn’t even been the time to set a headstone.

Walking through the damp mist of early November, Captain John H. Watson, RAMC cut a solitary figure as he stopped briefly at a black marble headstone, stroking a hand over the top edge, moving on to the Victorian chapel in the centre of the cemetery where funeral services were held.

All was quiet as he opened the door, a gloomy mustiness hanging in the air permeated the thick serge of his battledress, and John shivered as he stepped into the building.

Away from the hustle and bustle of London life, this was a sanctuary – a peaceful haven – and John stood beside the front pew, his head bowed, a small tea-light candle clutched in his hand. On the small altar sat, rather incongruously, a plain white saucer, and John smiled when he saw it, knowing that the local vicar had left it there for him, a request he had steeled himself to make a week previously.

**10.58**

John stepped up to the altar, carefully placing the tea-light onto the saucer, and taking a disposable lighter from his pocket lit the flame.

He stepped back to his place beside the pew and waited, head bowed once more.

**11.00**

A single bell rang out at the nearby church, and the world fell silent. John stood, unmoving.

The seconds ticked by. To the man standing alone before the altar it felt like a lifetime, the silence and the dank atmosphere hanging heavy around him.

**11.02**

The end of the two minutes silence was marked by a single peal of bells, nothing joyful – more simply accepting of fate and history.

Inside the chapel John drew himself up straight and saluted, his army boots clicking together on the stone-flagged floor.

After a moment he stood down, falling back into parade rest and nodding his head once more in acknowledgement of his surroundings, then he approached the altar once more to snuff out the candle.

**11.06**

The air outside the chapel, though still damp was considerably warmer than inside, and John eased his aching shoulder as he walked back towards the black marble gravestone.

Beside it, a tall man wrapped well against the autumn chill, first staring down at the inscription on the face, then back up at the soldier approaching him.

“He was my great-grandfather.” John volunteered the information in response to a raised eyebrow. “The papers the family received noted he was shot and killed just before 11am on the eleventh of November 1918.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I come over here every year, if I can, as you can see he was also RAMC – he was my hero, the man whose life story set me on the path to – well, to here really.”

“And yet you never corrected my assertion that heroes don’t exist...”

“Maybe for you they don’t.” John smiled softly, looking down at the headstone once more. “But to a young impressionable child he was everything I ever wanted to be, did everything I ever wanted to do – soldier, healer.” He glanced at Sherlock, faint traces of an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “And I very nearly suffered the same fate.”

“I’m glad you didn’t” Sherlock said quietly.

“Me too.” There was a slight pause, and then he added equally as quietly. “After all, who else is here to remember him.”


End file.
